Take me by the hand (and stand by my side)
by Jadzia Bear
Summary: "You want us to go out to dinner and pretend to be married?" In the grand scheme of things, it's not even one of his stranger requests #fluff #pining #happy ending


**AN:** Title is taken from the song 'All I Want Is You' by Barry Louis Polisar. Written for the lovely katsaysello on tumblr.

* * *

Molly lifts her head away from the microscope and looks out the window, giving her eye muscles a chance to readjust as she rubs at the twinge in her neck. The grey of the fading daylight grows deeper as the lights of the city start to appear. She should really pack up and head off for the day, not that she has anywhere interesting to be.

The door to the lab flies open with a whoosh and a bang, which can only mean one thing-Sherlock.

He sweeps into the room, coattails billowing and dark curls in an artful state of disarray. If that sight on its own isn't enough to take her breath away, the first words out of his mouth certainly are.

"Molly, be my wife."

Her knees turn to water and her heart pounds in her chest. Barely a full second passes before she registers that he can't possibly be serious, and yet when he comes to a stop beside her, there are shining gold rings in his palm.

She takes a deep breath. It's shaky on the exhale, but it still helps to calm her. Molly has resigned herself to the fact that her attraction to Sherlock is not only severe, but chronic. While she has much more control over her feelings these days than she used to, all attempts at extinguishing them have failed miserably. When not loving Sherlock isn't an option, all she has left is to accept that the feelings will never be returned and get on with her life.

"What are you talking about?" She tries to sound cool, calm, but it still comes out in a half-squeak.

"For a case," he says impatiently. "I need you to be my wife-my _pretend_ wife-" he squeezes his eyes shut and gives a small shake of his head like he's only just realising he should have said that part earlier, "and come out to dinner with me tonight. Now. Please," he adds as an afterthought.

"You want us to go out to dinner and pretend to be married?" she repeats. In the grand scheme of things, it's not even one of his stranger requests. Part of her wants to object simply due to the absurdity of it, but the rest of her quite fancies the thought of a night out with Sherlock, especially if there's a chance she might get to hold his hand.

She shakes her head at herself, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "Fine. Why not?"

"Good," he says, with a nod of satisfaction. He slips the larger gold band onto his long, elegant ring finger, leaving the smaller gold band and a diamond engagement ring for her. "You'll need these."

She reaches for them, but instead of giving them to her, he takes her hand and slides the rings into place for her. Her skin burns warm as a campfire in every place he touches her, and when she looks down at the jewellery on her finger, she is momentarily overwhelmed.

She thinks of herself as a career woman and has always tried to ignore the stereotypes about what women want, but she supposes the brainwashing of all those romantic comedies can't be undone by willpower alone.

In any case, she is soon distracted from that by the way Sherlock is holding her hand palm to palm with his and running the pad of his thumb over the top of her rings.

"Perfect fit," he murmurs, pride in his voice.

"Good guess," Molly commends him, trying not to sound as breathless as she feels.

"Oh, I never guess," he says, sharing a hint of a smirk with her.

She raises her eyebrows in question. She really doesn't want to hear that he broke into her apartment and took her measurements while she was asleep or something.

"Not that difficult to estimate, I spend a lot of time looking at you." A long moment passes before he registers how that sounds. He clears his throat and releases her hand. "While you're running experiments for me, obviously. Off we go, then!" he says, turning on his heel.

"Steady on!" she says, switching off the microscope. "I need to put all these samples away first."

Sherlock sighs dramatically but helps her put the lids on all the petri dishes and slide them into the refrigerator before dragging her out the door.

* * *

An hour later finds them in the back of a cab, dressed for dinner and on their way to the restaurant.

"So, what's this all about, then?" Molly asks, smoothing a hand with fire engine red nails over the skirt of her red dress. Sherlock had been very insistent about the nails. He'd had no opinions at all on the rest of her outfit, just as long as she put on the nail polish he had given her. "Is there a story I should practice about how we met, or where we got married?" How wrong is it that she's starting to feel a bit excited about their little charade?

"No story," Sherlock says, gazing out the window. "If there's any talking to be done, just let me do it." He pauses for a moment. "There are some other things we should practice, though."

"Such as?"

He examines the smooth gold band on his finger, so bright and new that even in the shifting shadows of the cab it still manages to gleam. "We need to appear to be newlyweds-deeply in love, very...physically affectionate, and it needs to look convincing from the moment we step out of the cab." He turns to look at her. "Perhaps it would be best if you moved closer."

She shifts over to the centre seat, not daring to let herself imagine what might be coming next.

"Let's start small, shall we?" he says, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together.

It's pretend, she knows it's all just pretend, but it's also _heavenly_. She tries to keep her wits about her enough to commit the sensation to memory.

She waits for some thoughtless, biting quip about how this must be a dream come true for her, some flippant remark that could flay her in seconds, leaving her cheeks burning and her heart exposed, but it never comes.

After a few minutes, he disentangles his fingers from hers to arrange his arm along the back of the seat and around her shoulders. It's an entirely different sensation from simply sitting beside him, their upper arms pressed against each other. Not only is it a more comfortable way to occupy the small space, it feels like a lowering of so many of the barriers Sherlock keeps between himself and others.

Not many people have had the opportunity to nestle against his side, and now she's one of them. She breathes in the mingled scents of his expensive cologne and the wool of the belstaff, hyper-aware of the way his long thigh is flush against hers.

"Ready for a bit more?" he asks.

It seems strange, Sherlock Holmes asking for permission to do anything, but perhaps it's not that surprising. After all, she has met this kinder, gentler version of him before, on the day he thanked her for her part in his disappearance. Something of that conversation, that moment of genuine honesty and mutual respect, has stayed with them ever since.

She nods in response, not trusting herself to speak.

With two fingers, he gently tilts her chin up towards him. She goes where he leads her, hardly daring to breathe. He leans in slowly, deliberately, and Molly doesn't know whether he's being careful not to startle her, or trying to drive her mad with anticipation.

He presses his warm, dry lips to hers in one long, chaste kiss. Her eyes drift closed as she savours it, wondering if she'll ever have the chance to do this again. She doesn't have to wait long for an answer.

His hand slips down to cup the side of her neck as he kisses her again, and again. She responds, tilting her head a little more, giving the kiss space to deepen, and Sherlock takes up the offer.

The tip of his tongue, wet and warm, flicks against the seam of her lips. It sets off a full-body shiver. Sherlock chuckles softly, but it's affectionate, not cruel.

"All right?" he murmurs against her lips.

 _"Mmph,"_ she replies, not even trying to pull herself away. She shifts in her seat to face him more, and he does the same, trailing his fingers down along her shoulder to the strap of her dress and back up to her jaw.

She reaches for his knee in the darkness but overshoots, her hand landing about mid-thigh. Sherlock's short, sharp intake of breath is quite gratifying, though, making her little fumble absolutely worth it. She slides her hand back down to his knee, but opens her mouth wider, inviting his tongue in even further.

The whole thing is like a dream, and she soon gives up on trying to stay present for each and every moment of it, succumbing instead to the heady combination of his gently probing tongue, the warmth of his breath and the way his fingertips drift across her skin. A bomb could go off outside at that very moment and she wouldn't even notice. All that exists in the world is the two of them and the back seat of the cab.

They jolt to a stop at their destination and reality snaps back into place like a rubber band. Their mouths break apart; their hands take a little longer to follow suit.

Sherlock rubs his thumb over a spot below her bottom lip where her lipstick is no doubt smeared. "All right?" he asks her for a second time, his voice hoarse from all the kissing.

She clears her throat and nods, hoping she doesn't look as startled as she feels. "Yeah."

She quickly fixes her lipstick in the little mirror of her compact as Sherlock pays the cabbie. When he turns back to her, there's a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Showtime, darling."

He steps out of the cab, then takes her hand and helps her out onto the pavement. The Friday evening crowds stroll along the footpath of the restaurant-lined street. Plenty of the venues are already starting to fill up with patrons.

The cool night air feels positively chilly on her overheated skin. Sherlock slips an arm around her waist and guides her towards a classy-looking French restaurant. She clips along beside him in her red heels and gives her hair a bit of a fluff. There was no time to do anything in particular with it so she'd just left it out.

"Stop fussing, you look beautiful," Sherlock chides. His smile reads as warm and genuine, even though she knows it's not. She blushes anyway.

"Thanks." She lowers her voice to a soft murmur. "Who are we trying to convince, again?" she asks, realising she still doesn't know what exactly they're even doing.

He stops and turns her to face him. "The whole street," he answers, and follows it up with a lingering kiss right there under the light of the street lamp.

Molly is a woman of science, she doesn't believe in concepts like heaven, but that belief is getting a run for its money tonight. If there was a heaven, surely this is what it would be like.

They reach the door of the restaurant and the maitre d' leads them straight to a reserved table for two, positioned in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. They are seated side by side looking out onto the street, given water and menus and left to themselves.

Molly feels a little like a goldfish in a bowl. It's not the table she would have chosen, here in full view of the whole restaurant and the street as well, but she opens her menu and tries to concentrate on the words inside.

Dinner passes in a blur of light touches and contrived smiles, of fake conversations held at a normal volume and real ones hidden under the guise of whispered nothings. It's surreal, and more than a little exhausting, trying to respond naturally while constantly reminding her skipping heart that it doesn't mean a thing.

Their performance must be convincing, though, because a well-dressed older woman stops by their table just as they are finishing their meals and comments on what a lovely couple they make.

"You remind me of my late husband and me when we were younger," she says wistfully. "Let me guess, newlyweds?" she asks, nodding at their shiny wedding bands.

"It's our one-month anniversary," Sherlock says with a grin, wrapping an arm around Molly and giving her a little squeeze.

"Congratulations! How wonderful," the woman says, nodding like she just made a decision of some sort. "Well, you two have a lovely evening, and take care of each other, now. Young love is such a special thing."

"Indeed it is," Sherlock agrees, and the woman continues on to her own table, out of earshot but still within view. Molly shoots Sherlock a look, but he doesn't seem to be anywhere near as amused as she is.

They return to the last few bites of their dinner, Sherlock playing with the fingers of Molly's free hand the whole while. They have not long finished their meals when a waiter appears with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

"We didn't order that," Molly tells him with an apologetic smile.

"No, madame, it is compliments of that table over there," the waiter says, nodding to where the older woman is sitting.

Sherlock and Molly both look over. The woman raises her wine glass to them and smiles, and Sherlock responds by mouthing an exaggerated 'you shouldn't have!'

The waiter pours their drinks and walks away.

"Put your finger in it," Sherlock whispers.

 _"What?"_ Molly demands through clenched teeth.

Sherlock picks up the bottle of bubbly and leans close to her under the guise of showing her the label. "Use your torso to block her view of your glass and dip one of your fingernails in it."

Molly does as instructed, trying not to draw attention to herself as she dips her little finger into the champagne. Any feelings of embarrassment evaporate the moment her nail turns from bright red to a murky purple.

She looks at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Time for a selfie!" Sherlock declares, getting out his phone. He poses with his cheek pressed to Molly's and his flute of champagne up near his face. "It's drugged, obviously. Only pretend to drink it," he murmurs, his lips barely moving.

Sherlock hasn't flipped to the reverse camera view, and Molly quickly realises why. They pose for their 'selfie' with cheesy grins, but when Sherlock snaps the photo, it's the older woman he has surreptitiously taken a picture of.

His thumbs fly across the screen in a flurry of taps. It looks like he's texting the photo to someone.

Mere moments pass before two people get up from different corners of the room and approach the woman's table.

"Who are they?" Molly whispers.

"Plain-clothed police," Sherlock murmurs back.

They watch as the two cops quietly escort the woman away. A third cop appears and collects the bottle of champagne from their table as evidence, before following after the other two.

"And who was she?" Molly asks.

"A serial killer who preys on young, happily married couples," Sherlock says casually, picking up his menu and flipping to the dessert section.

"We just caught a serial killer?" Molly repeats in disbelief.

"Mm-hm," he confirms, not bothering to look up. "Shall we share a piece of cake?"

* * *

After all that, Molly isn't in the mood to consume anything she hasn't prepared with her own hands, so they skip dessert and catch a cab back home. He puts his arm around her again, like he had on the way there.

Molly goes stiff as soon as he does it-the charade is over, after all-before she realises that this is her reward for her help tonight. She almost wishes she had the self-respect to turn it down, but she takes advantage of this one last opportunity to get closer to Sherlock than she will ever be again.

She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, letting herself pretend that it's real for a few more precious minutes.

It's over all too soon, and when the cab stops outside her flat, Sherlock walks her to her door.

She doesn't know what to say. 'Thank you for letting me touch you' feels a tad pathetic.

She goes to pull the rings off her finger so she can return them, but Sherlock clasps her hands in both of his to stop her.

"Not yet," he murmurs, his voice low and soft. "Molly..." he blinks several times, eyes downcast, as he considers his next words. "I'll probably never be a husband, lord knows I'd be terrible at it."

She smiles gently; he's not wrong.

"Especially for someone as generous and kind-hearted as you," he continues. "But it's been nice to pretend, and... I'm not sure I want it to end just yet."

So the cuddling on the way home hadn't been entirely for her benefit. Molly feels as giddy as if she really had drunk the roofied champagne. "Come in, then, husband," she says with a small quirk of her lips.

She doesn't know whether he's talking about taking things to the bedroom, or just cuddling up on the couch and watching the telly together, but she's up for anything.

She takes his hand, and draws him inside.

* * *

The End

 **AN:** Thank you for reading, lovely people. Feel free to come and find me at jadziabear dot tumblr dot com. Reviews make my day :)


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